In a City Sorrow Built
by winter machine
Summary: "She thinks she was strong, once."  Very dark, depressing and AU exploration of where Addisam may be heading at the close of this season, picking up after the last episode.  Complete, based on a prompt.


**A/N: **_This is an extremely dark and rather A/U exploration of the potential worst-case Addisam scenario for the end of this season, built on what we've seen so far. It picks up right after the wedding in last week's episode, and the elements (and certain dialogue) are based on a prompt. If you can stand it, let me know what you think - and then it will be out of my system, and I can get back to Six Impossible Things, which actually makes me smile. _

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><p><strong><em>In a City Sorrow Built<em>**

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><p>All she wanted to do was sleep.<p>

That was why she stripped to her underwear, unclipped her earrings, left the bright turqoise jewel of a dress splayed out on the chaise lounge. Stepped out of her heels, massaged the aching curves of her insteps. Ran a pillow-soft cloth over her face until the mask of makeup melted and it was just her own puffy, aching flesh staring back at her.

That was why she took the pill and why, when it didn't work, she took another. That was why she chased it with the warm, dark liquid in the first bottle, and the second.

Everyone was still dancing, when she left. No one stopped her. No one asked where she was going.

She just wanted to sleep.

**X**

All she wakes to is pain.

Then his voice, throaty and fierce. _My god, baby, what have you done? _

Searing blows to her chest, lungs starving for air. Bright lights, blurry noise.

_Hang on. No, don't fight it, let them help you._

Her body rises, arcs away.

_Hold her down,_ someone says.

There's a serpent in her throat, winding its way through her body, licking at her with a forked tongue of fire until she retches, powerfully, blindingly. Her vision is nothing but red lights of agony.

_That's it, you've got it, you're going to be okay._

"Families of suicide victims are statistically more likely to try it themselves," Violet intones at her bedside.

She ignores her, counts the tiles in the ceiling.

All she wanted to do was sleep.

**X**

He takes her home, tenderly changes the dressings taped to her fractured ribs.

"You can't be alone," he says. He holds her carefully against his chest. "Don't worry, I'm staying_._"

"You said we couldn't be friends," she whispers.

"Shhh," he strokes her hair. "None of that matters now. I saved you, Addison. We're together. Everything is going to be okay."

The night the bandages come off for the last time, he lays her gently on the same bed where he found her. She's a rag doll, limp and pliant, her joints loose. He presses her wrists into the mattress, hard enough to bruise, trails his lips along shuddering flesh.

_Promise you'll never leave me like that again. _

In the morning, she sees the marks of his fingers visible on tender skin. She can still feel the invisible ache of him inside her, like he's left something behind.

_I promise._

A week later, they do it again.

A month later, thighs parted, she lies vulnerable and exposed while Naomi strokes icy gel across quivering flesh and announces, with no expression in her voice, the unlikely news that he really did leave something behind.

**X**

"What changed?" Amelia asks, brow arched, when Sam buys a bassinet, when he scoops Addison's feet onto his lap to stroke powerful fingers on their aching soles, when he hovers at her side with cool glasses of water and warm kisses.

"Nothing," Addison says.

"Everything," Sam corrects her.

Amelia moves out the next day.

She says it was her idea.

**X**

He says he's happy. He says he loves the way she looks, flesh spreading and expansive, lustrous hair, the aching swell of her breasts. He says he wants her, and he shows her the same, can't get enough of her, grabs handfuls, surrounds himself with her.

He spreads his hands over the growing bump under her skin, calls it his baby. His child.

He loves her, he still loves her, and everything else disappears. She's not a cheater. She's not a whore. She's beautiful, Sam tells her.

_God, look at you,_ he says, eyes hungry and worshipful, pushing insistently against her, splitting her apart until there's nothing between them.

She turns her head to the side, and waits.

**X**

_I always liked the name Carson,_ she says softly, mouth mostly silenced against the warm wall of Sam's chest. _It works for a boy or a girl._

They name him Jonah Samuel.

She is the whale and she presses her fingers to the drum-taut skin of her growing belly and feels Jonah thrash about, waiting to be spat on dry land.

**X**

But he won't be spat. She pants and pleads, she sobs and screams, clutching at Sam and begging but he won't be spat.

_This isn't working,_ they say.

So she's beached on a gurney, speared with a needle until numbness flows through her veins.

_Please, I want to look,_ she cries but they hang a curtain as if she's just a patient, someone who's never before cut into another woman's flesh, dragged squalling new life out by the neck.

_Just look at me,_ Sam soothes, stroking her hair through the scrub cap.

The drugs leave her tongue too thick to cry.

Jonah cries enough for both of them. He opens hazel eyes wide with the hurt and indignance of birth and he screams, pouting lips rejecting her swollen nipple.

Sam takes him from her arms. Too weak to close her gown, she watches from behind the bare shelf of her aching breasts as Sam nurses their son with a bottle of formula.

After that, everything is dark.

**X**

_We knew she was at high risk for post-partum_, someone says and another Addison might have corrected them, might have objected that every mother is post-partum, while only the luckiest have post-partum depression. For post-partum you get diaper cakes and darling velour onesies and squeals of mashed-up jealousy and genuine happiness. For post-partum _depression _you get to lie umoving in thousand count sheets while lowly murmured voices dissect the numbness you've stopped fighting.

Sam runs a cool cloth over her damp brow, strokes her hair, brings her tea when she won't eat. He brings the baby to her side, lets her run a quivering finger over a satin-soft caramel cheek.

_You're so lucky to have Sam_, they say. _What would you do without him?_

At night he spoons around her until she can't move at all, not even if she wanted to.

"Just rest," he whispers to her. "I'll take care of both of you. Just close your eyes."

**X**

He brings her the pills with milk, watches her swallow them. "You're going to be okay," he murmurs, stroking her hair. "We're lucky, in a way. We're together now. We know how we feel. You're not alone anymore."

The medicine makes her lips feel thick and clumsy. Everything is slow, like floating. She used to float on her back for hours in the lake at the country house, until the sun kissed her skin a rosy freckled pink. Her skin is pale now, waxy.

"You're going to be fine," Sam soothes. "I'm here."

He holds her so close she's not sure where he leaves off and she begins.

**X**

The pills make it hard to remember.

She thinks she was strong, once. She knows she used to run on the beach, resistance from the sand flexing the powerful muscles of her legs.

Now her arms tremble when she tries to hold Jonah. Sam has to help her, settling her in the vee of his open legs, her back against his chest, his own arms cradling both her and their son.

She thinks she was smart, once. She knows she could diagnose a complex syndrome from a constellation of symptoms. She could snip and tie off veins until a life was saved.

Now she has trouble determining things, like whether she's eaten lunch. She thinks she has, but Sam insists she hasn't. He brings her soup and toast, helps her balance the spoon in her quivering fingers.

She thinks she was happy, once. She knows she flopped in a pile of crunchy autumn leaves, laughing as someone dumped more on top of her. She strolled the perimeter of the reservoir in the Park in step with another, ducks gliding serenely past their intertwined hands. She laughed with near hysterics on a carpet, glistening with sweat and the aftermath of pure pleasure.

Now she sobs in Sam's arms. _I don't think I'm going to get better._

He rocks her. _You will get better. I'm going to make sure of it. I'm here now, Addison. I'm going to take care of you._

**X**

"You have to talk to someone," he says finally, when she refuses to stand, when she stares limply at the ceiling while the wriggling weight of warm infant deflates her lungs.

He lifts her physically out of the cocoon of sheets, half-carries her to the car even though she won't shower, won't change out of the soft fleece pants that were clean two weeks ago.

"I'm so glad you came in, Addison," Violet says warmly.

Addison says nothing. She sits on the blue suede couch in Violet's office, head bowed, elbows on splayed knees, and remains silent for the entire hour.

"Be patient with her," Violet tells Sam, her voice gentle.

To Addison she says, "Let him help you. You have to try to let him help you. Do you know how many of my patients would give their right arms to have someone who loves them as much as Sam loves you? Do you know how rare that is, how lucky you are?"

Addison doesn't speak again until she's back in bed, and then she thinks some of her old self might still exist, under a hundred numb layers because she says, almost fiercely: "Don't ever make me do that again."

**X**

"Think of this as the mountain coming to Mohammed."

She wakes to Violet's words, hating the gentle, amused tone.

"House call," Sam says simply.

She won't look at either of them. Sam's concerned face blurs with her tears.

"We're trying to help you," he reminds her. He kisses her quivering lips, settles in the leather chair across the room.

"Everyone wants to help you, Addison," Violet says patiently. "But you need to make an effort too. You need to help yourself. Sam can't carry you the entire way."

Tears run sideways into her ears.

**X**

They live at Sam's house now. Her house is on the market.

"We have only one income, after all," he reminds her. When her eyes fill with tears, he shushes her gently, holding her close in the protective circle of his arms. "Shh, I don't blame you," he murmurs. "I know you're trying to get better. You're getting better, baby."

She is too tired to collect her things. With the exception of some clothing, Sam has them boxed and put in storage; they have everything they need at his house.

She has her cell phone, and sometimes she's awake when it rings.

Amelia calls her from San Diego, once. She's in treatment, she tells Addison, improving all the time.

"That wedding," Amelia says, trying to sound like she's joking, "things sure did fall apart after that."

"I'm getting better too," Addison says. Sam said it, so it must be true. "I'm...still so tired. But Sam, Sam is amazing, Amelia. He's been taking care of everything. I - he's the only one."

Amelia says quietly, "Mark said he tried to call you, Addie. Twice. Sam picked up."

When Sam brings her the pill she asks him if it's true.

"I didn't want to upset you," he shrugs.

"Why would it upset me?" she squeaks, voice shrill.

"You're upset now. Do you think I want you more upset?"

"It's my life," she whispers.

"Your _life_?" His eyes widen, forcing hers to meet them. "After what I - tell you what, Addison, when you have to find _me _sprawled out after washing down half a bottle of pills with wine, when you have to pump _my _chest and break _my _ribcage just so I can breathe again - then you can say it's your _life_."

"I didn't-" he presses his fingers to her lips, silencing her.

"Shhh. I know, I know," he murmurs. He wraps his arms around her, pulls her against him. "It's okay, baby, it's okay. I'm here. Everything's going to be okay."

**X**

She keeps the phone under her pillow. She picks up the next time he calls.

"I talked to Amelia. She said - what the hell's going on, Addie?" She can hear his scowl down the long distance line. "This isn't you," he says gruffly.

She can't respond, because she agrees.

"I..." but she's too stricken to form words. A tear rolls down her cheek.

Sam gently pries the phone from her cold fingers, turns his back.

"Look, man, she doesn't want to talk to you," he says quietly.

She can't respond, because she doesn't agree.

"I know," he says into the phone. "I know you just want to help. But I'm giving her all the help she needs."

He pockets her phone, sits beside her on the bed and strokes her hair from her face. Thumbs her tears away, kisses her damp cheeks.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he murmurs. "You won't have to go through this again. I promise."

True to his word, he takes her phone with him when he leaves the bedroom. She wouldn't know where to look for it, nor where to find the energy to ask for its return.

If anyone else calls, she doesn't hear of it. She speaks only to Sam, sometimes to Violet, and to Jonah.

_I'm sorry,_ she whispers into his soft dark curls, inhaling his milky baby scent. _I love you. I'll do better, I'll try to do better._

**X**

Jonah can take a few steps now, on sturdy little bowed legs.

He closes a chubby fist around her finger. _Ma-ma_, he chirps, little hands exploring the tear-streaked planes of her face, and she cries harder.

"I can't," she sobs into Sam's shirt as he relieves her of the baby, takes her in his arms and rocks her. Jonah watches with interest from the floor, one hand on his pull-toy. "I can't - I don't know how to be here."

"Addison," his tone is gentle, reassuring. "Be rational. Where are you going to go?"

"I don't know," she admits.

She needs to tell him, to explain that this house feels like it's underwater and he feels like the seaweed that clings to your legs when you try to fight your way to the surface. He'll listen, because he loves her, and he wants her to get better.

But he just wraps himself tighter around her, murmuring soft sibilant comfort until she can't move her limbs anymore; all she can do is tip her head back, look up and think about what it would be like to break the surface.

**X**

Jonah will be a year old in less than a week. His head is covered in dark marshmallow-puff curls now, his merry hazel eyes land on everything at once, his quick fingers snatch contraband wherever they can and stuff whatever will fit into his pink rosebud mouth. His laughter is all that cuts through the darkness.

_You have to accept that things might not change,_ Violet tells Sam, _no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you do for her. _Addison listens, curled in a knot against the headboard, fingers half over her ears.

"Everything can change," Sam corrects her.

Nothing changes, not really, Addison thinks. But she's too tired to form the words. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow she'll be strong enough to tell him.

Jonah feels so big now, so solid in her trembling arms, like he's the only real thing in their home.

She holds him close when he lets her, loving to feel the thump of his heartbeat against her chest. The breasts he refused in infancy have long since stopped producing milk. _Da-da_, he says when he is hungry, holding up his arms to Sam.

He likes to toddle around now, but he's fast and she's too exhausted to chase him.

Most nights, when he's bathed and sleepy, he consents to cuddle. Sam deposits him on the bed beside her and she rubs his back through the terrycloth sleeper, feeling the strong spine under his tender skin.

_I grew that_, she thinks. _I made you._

**X**

Violet comes over every week, still.

"I'm so exhausted," Addison says into her pillow. "Maybe...the medication..."

"We don't think you're ready for a change yet," Violet says gently.

Sam brings her the pill that evening like usual, watches her take it.

Just once she tried to slip it past her mouth. She pretended to swallow, nothing but air with the glass of milk. Sam found the stray pill in her hair before she could hide it, and she watched numbly as his eyes darkened with rage.

He pushed the pill between her cracked lips, forced her to swallow it dry, pried her mouth open and ran a questing finger along her throat to make sure it was gone before letting her drain the bottle of water he'd been holding just out of her reach.

"One more time," he threatened, fingers digging into her shoulders as he lifted her half off the bed, giving her a firm shake. "One more time and I will hospitalize you, Addison. I won't let you do this to yourself. Not again. I won't let you do this to us."

"I'm sorry," she sobbed weakly.

He pulled her forward into his arms then, rubbed gentle circles into her shaking back. "I can't lose you again," he murmured against her hair as she wept into his chest. "I love you so much, baby. We need you. I know it might not seem like it, but Jonah and I, we need you too."

**X**

"Have you been compliant, with the medication?" Violet asks.

Addison is propped against the headboard. Violet's in the bedroom again for one of their sessions, cross-legged on the king-sized bed. Jonah tugged at her curls when Sam brought him in to say hello before his nap. _Ma-ma_, Jonah giggled as he grabbed Violet's reading glasses, and a dull ache spread through Addison's belly.

Addison tries to speak. "I want-"

"What do you want?"

But she can't form the words.

Violet shakes her head. "No one can help you if you refuse to help yourself," she scolds. "Do you think you're being fair to Sam?"

Addison rolls over to face the wall.

**X**

"I want to work again," she murmurs when he crawls into bed behind her, spoons his body up against hers.

"Addison," he sighs into her hair. "What would we do, bring patients to this bed?"

"Don't - don't laugh at me," she chokes out and he holds her closer.

"Baby, I'm not laughing. Of course I wish you could work. Don't you think I want you to get better?"

_No,_ someone inside of her screams, silently. _No!_

Out loud she says "Of course. I'm sorry, Sam."

"Don't be sorry." He strokes her hair. "It's okay."

"I don't know why you stay with me," she whispers.

"I love you, Addison. In spite of everything, I love you. I'll never leave you."

**X**

"Jonah called Violet 'mama,'" she confesses to Sam the next night, in a flood of tears.

"Oh, baby." He folds her palm between his. She used to love the way he held her hand so tightly, like he would never let go. Like she couldn't let go, even if she wanted to. She's still so tired. "Don't cry. Jonah knows who you are."

"I can't - I'm not - I'm not a mother," she chokes.

"You will always be his mother," Sam intones. "He will always love you. Just like I will. We both know you're doing the best you can."

"You're a good man, Sam," she whispers. She can see herself reflected in the dark irises of his eyes. In the trick of refracted light, her image looks small and wavering, like she's about to disappear.

He squeezes her hand and says "I know."

He pulls her into the impenetrable circle of his arms and strokes her forehead until her eyes drift closed.

All she wanted to do was sleep.

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><p><strong>Title from<em> Sorrow, by <em>the National**

_Sorrow found me when I was young.  
>Sorrow waited, sorrow won<br>Sorrow that put me on the pills  
>It's in my honey, it's in my milk<em>

_Sorrow's my body on the waves_  
><em>Sorrow's a girl inside my cave<em>  
><em>I live in a city sorrow built<em>  
><em>It's in my honey, it's in my milk<em>  
><em>Don't leave my half a heart alone, on the water<em>  
><em>Cover me in rag and bones, sympathy<em>  
><em>'Cause I don't wanna get over you<em>  
><em>I don't wanna get over you<em>


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